


Random Things What I Done Wrote: Sherlock

by moonblossom



Series: Random Things What I Done Wrote [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Ficlet, Fluff, Gen, Humour, M/M, Non-sequential, Other, crossovers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-15
Updated: 2015-04-06
Packaged: 2017-11-18 17:39:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 40
Words: 16,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/563674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom/pseuds/moonblossom
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of all the tiny Sherlock-specific drabbles and ficlets I post on tumblr (usually based off an image I've found). These will be updated somewhat irregularly, whenever I happen to get inspired to write one.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Til Death Do Us Part

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this photo](http://24.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m2wbnv1iP21qcpwmwo1_r1_500.png), which I manipulated to look like a wedding photo.

“John, I still don’t see why we had to bother with all this ridiculous matrimonial pomp and circumstance. We could easily have just signed some papers and been done with this.”

“I told you already, Mrs. Hudson would never forgive us if if we’d gone to city hall without letting anyone know. Now behave already.”

Sherlock scowled. “I’m behaving! I haven’t told anyone off since we got here. And look at Mycroft, already eyeing the cake. He’s doing it to get on my nerves, I know he is.”

John glared up through his eyelashes, a move he knew damned well Sherlock was weak to.

“Sherlock, you are _barely_ behaving. You’re lucky I didn’t let Molly and Anthea plan this, or you’d be wearing a tux, and I wouldn’t be surprised if every person we ever met and half the British government were in attendance. Now shut up, smile and be nice, and I promise….” John’s voice dropped to a low rumble “I will make it up to you when we get home and are well and truly married.”


	2. New York Minute

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> John and Sherlock are on a case in New York. John meets a charming young woman at a Starbucks.  
> *if this one seems familiar it's because it was edited and converted into a [221B drabble](http://archiveofourown.org/works/270813/chapters/773759)

They’d been in New York for a few days now, on a case, and John was exhausted and irritable. He’d left Sherlock in their room and headed down to one of the ubiquitous Starbucks that seemed to be on every corner. He’d just sat down with his tea (watery, bitter, but still better than nothing) when a lovely Asian woman sat down next to him. He smiled and nodded.

“John, John Watson. Can I help you?”

The woman’s eyes bulged briefly, as if in shock.

“J— Joan. Joan Watson. And, I’m not sure.”

The two of them let out nervous giggles, the coincidence too amusing to ignore.

“I’ve noticed you hovering around at crime scenes lately. I…” she paused, unwilling to say too much. “I work with the police sometimes. Well, someone I know does. But you don’t seem to be affiliated with the police force, so what’re you doing around?”

John sighed, rubbing his forehead. “It’s complicated. We’re - my partner - is a consulting detective.”

The young woman looked startled again.

“Are you pulling my leg? This isn’t funny.”

“I wish I were, miss.”

Suddenly, John’s phone buzzed.

_Bored! Come back to the hotel. -SH_

“I’m sorry, Joan. I need to get back to him.”

She smiled and glanced towards the back door of the cafe, where a scruffy and irritable-looking man in a red and black plaid scarf stood looming and gesturing at her.

“Not a problem, I think I’m also being summoned. Nice meeting you, Watson.”

“You too, Watson.”


	3. Force of Habit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some unexpected angst here, inspired by [this gorgeous drawing](http://taking-meds.deviantart.com/art/John-Watson-294092917)

At first, he did it out of habit. Kept his mobile close by, waiting for Sherlock to text, asking him to show up at some absurd location or run some ridiculous errand.

Every so often, without realising it, he’d pull it out of his pocket, checking for new messages that never came.

People kept suggesting he turn it off, put it away. “Waiting for a call that’s never going to come,” they’d murmur, softly. But he still heard it.

Eventually, it became more of an act of defiance than anything. Clinging to a shred of hope that it would ring one day.

When it finally did ring, the sound was so foreign, so alien, that John didn’t recognise it at first.

Hands shaking, he fished it out of his coat. The screen was lit with a new text message.

_I’m sorry, John. I’m home. -SH_


	4. On Jumpers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of fluff to counter-act the angst in the last one. Inspired by this [ridiculous photo of Benedict in a jumper and John in a parka](http://25.media.tumblr.com/tumblr_m6tk7m6mBJ1qmhfl1o1_500.jpg)

“Damn it, Sherlock. Why did you have to leave the flat in my jumper? Did we really need to give them another reason to speculate?” John scowls at Sherlock’s wool-clad torso.

“It’s comfortable, John. And warm.” Something about Sherlock’s smug grin makes John laugh.

“Why don’t you have your bloody coat, anyway? It’s freezing out here.”

“Mm, yes, speaking of coats, why did you keep that abomination of a parka? I hope it wasn’t for the memories.” John grumbles, stuffing his hands in his pockets. Sherlock’s hit too close to home. The parka doesn’t remind him of the vest that was hidden underneath it - it reminds him of the look on Sherlock’s face, the look when he realised Sherlock actually cared about him, about his safety, about their lives together.

“Shut up, Sherlock. And you still haven’t answered my question. Where the hell is  _your_ coat?”

Sherlock mumbles, indistinct.

“Say again?”

“Back at the flat. It doesn’t smell like you.” He stares off into the distance, avoiding eye contact, but John can see the flustered embarrassment on Sherlock’s face.

“Oh come here, you ridiculous git.” Grinning, John grabs Sherlock, feeling the alien warmth of his own jumper under his fingers, and uncaring of the watching policemen and roaming reporters, presses his lips firmly to Sherlock’s.

Now people will  _definitely_  talk.


	5. I Don't Count

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [AliceXZ](http://alicexz.tumblr.com/) and [Lexie](http://artbylexie.tumblr.com/) collaborated on [this incredible drawing of Molly and Sherlock](http://alicexz.tumblr.com/post/29645534274/lexie-very-generously-gave-me-permission-to-color), and invited people to write something up for it.

Molly cursed quietly under her breath as the heavens opened up. The forecast had claimed good weather all weekend, but she should have known better than to trust the newsmen. She could feel her hair starting to frizz already. Sherlock, damn him, still looked fantastic. But then, he always did, didn’t he?

The were standing in silence, waiting for the light to change when she felt the rain let up, felt the warmth of his body suddenly in her personal space. She spun around, facing Sherlock, ensconced in the relative warmth of his coat.

“Won’t do to have you catching a cold, Molly.”

“oh, um… thank you. Thanks.” she stammered, rubbing the toes of her damp trainer against the pavement and inwardly cringing. Was it her imagination, or was he smiling down at her. No, not at her. She sighed.

“It’s nearly done then, you’ll be able to go back to him soon, won’t you?” She didn’t have to say his name, they both knew who she was talking about.

“Nearly done, yes. But not yet. Not tonight. You’re still stuck with me for a few days.” Sherlock smiled again, and this time Molly was sure, he was smiling at her. “Time to go, Molly. The light’s changed.”

She bit her lip and nodded up at him before stepping out of the shelter of his coat and ducking quickly across the intersection, a bit of a spring in her step.


	6. "Wasn't he a composer?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one stems from the submission to the [BBC Sherlock Headcanon Tumblr](http://bbcsherlockheadcanon.tumblr.com/post/27427828377/submission-by-boig) that read: _John is a slow typist because Sherlock switched around the keys on his keyboard_

“Sherlock, what the bloody buggering fuck did you do to my keyboard?”

“Mm?” Sherlock looks up from the newspaper, his face impassive.

“All the letters are wrong. It was working fine until you stole it.” John sighs, scrubbing his face with his hands.

“Borrowed it. You have it back now, don’t you?”

“Whatever. Fix it.”

“I did. Your keyboard is in DVORAK now, it’s much more efficient.” He looks bored and smug at the same time, a patented Sherlock combination.

John looks perplexed. “Wasn’t he a composer?”

Sherlock raises a brow, but says nothing. John takes a few deep breaths, exhaling through his nose in an attempt to calm himself.

“I don’t care who he is, I don’t care if it’s more efficient. Just fix it, you arse.”

Sherlock frowns. “Fine, fine. Just don’t complain to me if you get some sort of repetitive strain issue when you write those flowery, long-winded blog posts.”


	7. That Bloody Ashtray

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoops, I accidentally more angst. This one came from [this photoset about the ashtray from Buckingham Palace](http://bakerstreetbabes.tumblr.com/post/30323141007/anyone-who-says-sherlock-doesnt-pay-attention-to).

John sighed, the weight of all the clutter in the flat bearing down on his shoulders. He’d promised Mrs. Hudson he’d come back and clean up, pack up all of Sherlock’s old things, and he figured it’d be easier to get it over and done with. No need to draw it out.

He was in the process of bundling up Sherlock’s notes, piles of newspapers and magazine clippings, when he came across it. The ashtray rolled off the table and landed on the carpet with a heavy thud. He was expecting it to shatter, but it was too solid. Pure cut Austrian crystal, of course. Only the best for that particular client.

Fucking thing. As he picked it up, he could nearly hear Sherlock giggling in his ear. Fucking Sherlock. Leaving him to clean up the mess. Again. Bloody hell. John wiped his eyes with the back of his hand before studying the infernal ashtray again. Before he realised what he was doing, he’d thrown it violently across the flat. It may have been solid enough to survive a tumble onto the carpet, but nothing so fragile could have withstood the force of being lobbed against the cold tile of the kitchen. The shattering noise it made, thousands of tiny splinters dropping to the hard floor, reminded John of the noise in his head, the feeling inside his chest, back when… Sherlock… well.

Shuddering, John stood up and brushed the knees of his jeans clean. He stepped into the kitchen and grabbed a broom.


	8. The Bad Touch

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Cracky bit of semi-public onanism, courtesy of [this photoset of the courtroom scene](http://hogwarding.tumblr.com/post/34166201746).

“Damn it, Sherlock. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. Not in public.”

Sherlock smirked from the relative safety of the witness box as his shoulders continued moving in a manner all too familiar to John. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest, fighting the temptation to drop them to his lap. Wouldn’t do to have the poor woman next to him notice. Sherlock may have been a bit of an exhibitionist, but John certainly wasn’t.

He nodded again, jutting his chin out to where Sherlock was sitting. The gesture spoke volumes. “Fine then, you keep being a filthy prat. I’ll just have to teach you a lesson when we get home, assuming you don’t get thrown in out for contempt first.”


	9. Extremities

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bit of fluffy Mystrade. Geniusbee on tumblr posted [a drawing of some feet in pinstripe trousers and challenged people to write something about them.](http://geniusbee.tumblr.com/post/35415365167/trick-or-treat-smell-my-feet)
> 
> *This one was also posted as [a separate story](http://archiveofourown.org/works/559300), but I'm adding it here as well for consistency's sake. The separate story may eventually get a second chapter, so I'm leaving it up.

Mycroft always hated his feet. He’d had an awkward relationship with most of his body, but his feet always stood out. Strangely lumpy things, much easier to tuck them into a pair of delicately knit socks and hand-made footwear. Sherlock loved to traipse around barefoot, long toes wiggling into carpets, and Mycroft was certain he was doing it on purpose. His feet were much more elegant than Mycroft’s, and he did so enjoy showing off.

When Mycroft and Greg first started dating, Mycroft did everything he could to ensure he’d never have to go barefoot. Thankfully, Greg seemed to enjoy the power play that came with one partner being entirely nude and the other nearly fully clothed. Eventually, Mycroft let his guard down.

They were sitting on the sofa, enjoying a glass of scotch while the news played in the background, but neither man was really paying attention to it.

“Mycroft?” Greg’s voice was slightly sleepy, blurred around the edges from the scotch. “Why don’t you ever take your shoes off?”

He bristled. There was no way out of it now.

“I’m more comfortable this way.”

“Bullcrap. Nobody’s ever more comfortable in shoes like that. C’mon. Take ‘em off.”

Mycroft pursed his lips, toes suddenly feeling confined by the rich leather of his brogues. “Myfeetareugly.”

“Mycroft Holmes, did you just  _mumble?_ “ Greg sat up, suddenly stone sober. “You’re gorgeous. I’m sure your feet are gorgeous.”

Mycroft realised there was going to be no dropping this issue. Not now that Greg’s mind was clear. He was going to harp on it until one of them gave in, and Mycroft wasn’t sure he had the patience for that. With a hugely put-upon sigh, the type usually reserved for his brother, he leaned forward and carefully undid the laces of his shoes. He slipped them off with practiced ease and tucked them neatly under the sofa before pulling his socks off. He could feel the flush of embarrassment creeping across the back of his neck as Greg studied his feet, taking in the smattering of freckles across the tops, the couple of absurd ginger hairs across his big toes.

Tentatively, Greg reached out and ran one finger across the top of Mycroft’s left foot, causing him to gasp. Hardly anyone had ever touched his feet, and as a result they were incredibly sensitive. Greg ran his hands around to Mycroft’s heels, cupping both feet in his hands.

“May I?” He smirked, not a single trace of disgust or displeasure in his warm eyes. Sucking in another sharp breath, Mycroft nodded.


	10. Food for Thought

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reapersun posted this adorable drawing of [Sherlock stealing food from John's plate instead of ordering his own](http://reapersun.tumblr.com/post/9535923389/its-a-daaaate-its-date-niiiiight-hazukashiiiii), and I couldn't resist spewing out some grumpy fluff.

John’s trying to focus on the menu, but Sherlock’s wearing a new shirt in a deep emerald green that’s impossibly distracting.

“Sherlock, you getting anything?”

“Not tonight, not hungry.”

John frowns, but knows it’s pointless to argue. Dragging his eyes away from the shirt, and the impact it’s having on Sherlock’s eyes - celadon today, warm and inviting - he stares at the menu.

“I was thinking of the ravi-“

“Nope.”

“The veal marsala looks g-“

“Nope.”

John sighs. Apparently it’s going to be one of  _those_ nights.

“Lasagna?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“What would you suggest then?”

“I’ve heard good things about the pumpkin gnocchi.”

If John’s being honest with himself, he’s not really in the mood for pumpkin, but if it’ll get Sherlock to eat something, so be it.

The waiter slinks up to their table, smarmy and obsequious.

“And what will sirs be having tonight?”

Sherlock stares off into the mid-distance while John scowls.

“Sir over there will be having seven cups of coffee, and I’ll have the pumpkin gnocchi.”

“Excellent choices.” The waiter glides away in a cloud of expensive cologne and disdain.

When the meal arrives, John can’t help but admit it’s not bad. What’s better though, is watching Sherlock pick bits off his plate and stuff them between those obscene lips.

“I hate you, you know that, Sherlock?”

Sherlock smiles fondly, one foot rubbing along the inside of John’s left calf.

“And I hate you too, John.”


	11. This Inhuman Torture

It starts under Sherlock’s breastbone, a trail of chemical fire running down his arms and legs, jolting him out of a nearly narcotic stupor. His tongue is swollen and dry, his eyes uncooperatively stuck shut. He tries to roll over, but the burning in his bones causes his body to shudder in protest, and there’s a heavy weight across his torso, trapping him to the bed.

Has he been kidnapped, is he being tortured? Even his hearing has been muffled, the only discernible noise is a strange watery rumble that seems to blur everything else into incoherence.

He tries to call out, and his captor apparently takes pity on him, because suddenly there’s a straw being held to his lips. Unconcerned now about showing weakness, he accepts it gratefully, drawing in large gulps of cool, soothing water.

Refreshed, he manages to force his eyes open. No tape then, just some sort of gummy residue. His vision is blurry, and it takes him a moment to recognise the familiar features hovering above his face. A furrowed brow shadowing deep blue eyes, a slightly upturned nose, and a wide mouth, frowning in concern.

“…John? Why are you doing this to me?”

John frowns again, dragging a mercifully cool and damp cloth against Sherlock’s incendiary forehead.

“Doing what, taking care of you? Because you ran yourself ragged before throwing yourself into the Thames and ended up with the flu, you great git.”

The flu? Is that what this hell on earth is? No wonder Sherlock’s apparently deleted it.

“John, I’m dying…” His mouth feels papery, and getting the words out is a challenge. John tips the straw towards him again.

“Shh, shhh…” John’s hand across his forehead is cool and nurturing and glorious. “With all the running around you do, and the way you neglect your body’s needs, I’m surprised you don’t get the flu more frequently.”

Sherlock just groans, burrowing his face into the comfort of John’s palm. His skin feels too tight, like it’s going to split open at any moment, and John’s cool hand is a soothing balm.

He tries to sit up, but the soft pressure from John’s other hand across his sternum prevents it. He’s being incredibly gentle, but commanding enough that Sherlock doesn’t bother arguing. Defeated, he drops his head back onto the pillow, groaning as spots of light burst before his eyes.

“Just take these and go back to sleep.” John’s voice is warm and fuzzy around the edges, cutting through the fog in Sherlock’s head as he places two small tablets - paracetamol? - on Sherlock’s tongue and suddenly that seems like the best idea ever. He closes his eyes, swallowing and cringing as the pills scratch his throat, and drifts back to sleep.


	12. "Sherlock Holmes, Put Your Trousers On!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this adorable drawing](http://against-stars.tumblr.com/post/15364712171/did-anyone-else-get-the-impression-that-theyd-had) of young Sherlock and Mycroft having a very familiar argument.

“Sherlock Holmes, put your trousers on!”

The first time he hears it, he’s four. And really, when you’re four, what do you need trousers for anyway? All they’re good for is getting dirty when you’re examining the fascinating dirt in the back yard, or getting discoloured when you accidentally spill hydrogen peroxide on them.

He makes a point of making Mycroft shout it fairly frequently in the following years, marching from the kitchen to the bedroom in his pants and a school jumper. It’s not as if Mycroft’s much different from Sherlock from the waist down, anyway. Rounder, certainly, and far more freckled, but the basics are all the same, so he’s not sure what the problem is.

Eventually the awkwardness of puberty sets in and Sherlock capitulates, making sure he’s completely covered before ever leaving his bedroom, and Mycroft ceases having an excuse to shout at him.

***

It’s nearly ten years later, in a dingy single room in a flat in Montague Street, the next time he hears it. Sherlock’s lying on the bare mattress, a small morocco case on the floor next to him. Mycroft’s voice is watery and far-away, and Sherlock finds he can’t really focus on his face. The concentration must have been off. If only Sherlock’s usual source hadn’t been missing in action, he wouldn’t have had to go to someone else…

“Sherlock? Sherlock?! Keep your eyes on me. Come on, put your trousers on, we need to get you out of here, you bloody idiot.”

Mycroft’s words are sharp and cold but his arms are soft and warm, and Sherlock hangs limply against him, struggling to put one leg after the other in the cleanest pair of trousers he can find - but that’s not saying much.

***

The last time he hears it, it’s in the poshest, most unlikely place anyone could imagine.

“We are in Buckingham Palace, the very heart of the British Nation. Sherlock Holmes, PUT YOUR TROUSERS ON!”

This time, there’s no malice, but also no anguish. Just pure, unadulterated, brotherly frustration. And for a moment, Sherlock is four again, and everything is perfectly uncomplicated.


	13. Mrs. Hudson's Quiet Afternoon

There’s a scuffle at the front door and the crash of elephants stampeding up the stairs, and Bridget Hudson smiles to herself. Sherlock and John are home, she can relax now. She potters about in the kitchen, humming fondly as she turns on the kettle and gets down the box of digestives.

After the… incident with her ex-husband, she never thought she’d settle down and feel maternal towards anyone, and then Sherlock blew into her life with the force of a hurricane. He seemed like the type who’d never get to settle down either, she’d thought to herself. And then he showed up on her stoop with such a charming, polite doctor in tow. Bridget thought there had to have been some mistake. And yet, here they still are, so many years later. It had taken them far too long to figure their feelings out, the silly clots, and she’d had to discreetly intervene a few times, but they’re together now, and that’s the important part.

Warmth, contentment, and the knowledge that her boys are safe and sound upstairs fill her chest as she settles down on the sofa. The William Morris fabric is a bit threadbare at the armrests, the cushions have gone a little lumpy, but it’s still a good old sofa. She finds herself patting the seat next to her fondly and then chuckles at her own silliness.

She sets the tea and a plate of biscuits down on the spindly little table at her elbow and grabs the television remote. It’s nearly time for her shows. She’d been a bit concerned that John and Sherlock would still be out on one of their silly adventures by the time Corrie started. As much as she’ll never admit it, she can’t concentrate when they’re out and about like that; she worries too much about them.

There’s a sudden shout from upstairs, and then silence. One of Sherlock’s experiments has gone wrong, maybe. Or perhaps John’s stubbed a toe. She shrugs and raises the volume a tic. Just as the theme song is tapering off, there’s another abortive yelp and a thud. Alarmed, Bridget raises herself out of the squashy sofa as quickly as her poor old hip will allow. She’s about to trot up the stairs when she hears another shout. More thuds too, only now they’re much more rhythmic and regular.

Oh. Oh dear. She feels her face flush at the sudden realisation of what the noises are. It’s a good thing she didn’t barge in there to check on them. Well, she muses. At least they’re not bickering.

She sits back down, burrowing into the sofa, and tries to pick up the thread of the show. Izzy and Tara are on screen, arguing about something. Blast it, she missed what the discussion was about, but she suspects it has to do with the baby.  Just as things are getting interesting, the thumping from upstairs escalates in both speed and volume.

Muttering under her breath, she raises the volume another tic, and then another, in an attempt to muffle out the noises. She can hear groaning now. Quite deep, it must be Sherlock. She gasps and her teacup rattles in its saucer as she realises how inappropriate that thought was. Damn those boys. A woman of her age shouldn’t have to be dealing with this nonsense.

About halfway through the programme the noises come to a rousing crescendo, and then finally, a blissful silence. Bridget hums to herself and lowers the volume of the telly back to a manageable level, glad to have some peace and quiet.

It’s unfortunately short-lived, however, when not ten minutes later they’re at it again. Damn those boys and their adolescent-like stamina. Giving it all up as a lost cause, she lets out one thoroughly exasperated sigh before pulling a pair of earplugs out of a drawer and rummaging until she finds Sherlock’s Sudoku cube, the one she borrowed last time she was dusting up there. He’s surely noticed it’s gone missing by now, but Bridget thinks she’s earned it at this point.


	14. The Silver Fox and the Kitten

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of Lestrade Valentine's fluff, inspired by [this adorable doodle](http://ivorylungs.tumblr.com/post/43089070551) by ivorylungs on tumblr

It’s that time of year again. Greg groans and steps into his office, assaulted by the huge pile of pink and red on his desk.

At first, he’d worried that subordinates were currying favour from him, but then he noticed the chocolates were often arriving anonymously, and sometimes even clearly labelled from his superiors.

They’d been showing up on his desk somewhat regularly for years now, starting from the time his hair had shifted from an indistinct dark brown to salt-and-pepper, and now to full on silver-grey.

It’s not that he  _minds_  all the valentines. Not exactly. The flowers make him sneeze a bit and then end up dying in a jar in his kitchen, but the thought behind them is sweet. He’s had to cut down on the chocolates after that last root canal, but he still indulges. The frilly silk knickers were a bit confusing though - Greg wasn’t sure if he was meant to wear them or if someone else already had. He’d stuffed those in a drawer and promptly forgotten about them.

If he’s being entirely honest with himself, it’s that he doesn’t think he’ll ever get the one he’s waiting for. He rummages through the clutter on his desk, a feeble attempt to find the damned paperwork he needs to get done.

It’s then that he spots it. A nauseating pink affair that appears to be handmade out of doilies on it. There’s a fluffy kitten on the front, one with a big bow around its neck. The card is tied to a small stuffed bear, one wearing a tiny jumper with cherries on it.

His heart pounds in his chest. It may be the silliest, twee-est thing he’s ever seen, but without even reading the name on it, he knows. It’s from her.


	15. Red Pants Limerick

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A tiny bit of absurdity, written for Red Thong Monday. ;)

There once was a doctor named John,

His body was fit, tan, and strong.

He lost his red pants,

By some strange circumstance.

Said Sherlock - “Oh just wear a thong!”


	16. Sun and Moon

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this lovely drawing by Inchells](http://inchells.tumblr.com/post/45746987315/the-sun-and-the-moon-er-night-sky-inspired).

Dawn and dusk. Dusk and dawn. Since the beginning of time, that’s all they’ve had. A few scant minutes per cycle, twice a day.

John is drowsy, pink and aflame with oncoming sleep. Sherlock thinks he’s beautiful that way. He warms them both - bright rays of sunset reflecting off Sherlock’s silver surface, casting the faintest hint of pink across his cheekbones.

A more sentimental Moon would say Sherlock was blushing.

As John sets, as Sherlock rises, for a moment they are level in the sky. They reach out to one another, fingertips locked together, as if gripping each other this way will prolong it. And for a moment, everything is perfect. Everything is in balance, their eyes meeting, lips smiling.

And then Sherlock feels the pull, feels the sky calling him. Feels John falling, setting for the night. They cling together, hands tight, for as long as they can.

At least there’s sunrise tomorrow.


	17. The Ladies' Bras

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we know Sherlock has indexed his own socks, and according to the Casebook has done the same with John’s ties. I was just tickled by the idea of Sherlock hiding out at Molly’s post-Reichenbach, and doing the same with her most personal of laundry items.
> 
> Also a thinly-veiled excuse to get [The Ladies Bras’ song](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Vd2yyT__EDM) stuck in everyone’s heads.

Sherlock steps back, eyeing his work with satisfaction. The brassieres have separated by colour and usage - the frilly, brightly coloured ones in one drawer and the more utilitarian ones Molly seems to favour when she’s ovulating or pre-menstrual in another. The pants have been similarly arranged; date-night knickers in one section, arranged by colour, and the big beige ones with the control tops that she doesn’t need but insists on keeping in another part.

Admittedly, it hadn’t been as satisfying as indexing his own socks, but while he’s trapped here in Molly’s flat, he’s had to find less interesting things to keep him occupied. He makes a few minor adjustments in the drawer, re-sorting a few things by colour and pattern, and steps back, hands tucked contentedly in his pockets. Molly will be pleased by this.

As if on cue, Sherlock hears her familiar footsteps up the stairs to her flat. Not the solid, confident stride of one John H. Watson - a sound infinitely familiar to Sherlock - but comforting nonetheless. Molly’s steps are smaller, gentle and shuffling, as if she’s worried about making noise and disturbing her neighbours. He spins on his heel, his attempt at a welcoming smile working its way across his face.

“Hello, Molly! Welcome home!”

She falters slightly and drops her heavy bag onto a chair.

“Sherlock... what were you doing in my bedroom?”

Excellent, an ideal opening to show off his handiwork. “I did a little something for you, Molly. As a token of,” he pauses, fumbling for the right word, “my gratitude. For letting me stay here for a few days.”

Molly’s brow furrows, her lips pursed in trepidation. No lipstick today. She must have been too busy working to worry about flirting with anyone. Hesitantly, she nods and follows Sherlock into the bedroom.

With a flourish, he pulls open the drawers, all tidily reorganised. They really had been a disaster previously. Everything tossed in pell-mell and knotted together. He turns to Molly, eagerly awaiting her appreciation.

“SHERLOCK! What the hell did you do?” 

Sherlock blinks, confused. She doesn’t sound thankful at all. In fact, she sounds entirely furious. It’s fantastically interesting to Sherlock to see Molly in this state. Most of the time she’s so quiet and mousy, so eager to please. Seeing her react in this way gives Sherlock a whole new series of expressions and emotions to catalogue.

He must take too long to reply, because she barges on, increasing in volume as she goes.

“Did you rummage through my knickers, you bloody arse? I thought you weren’t interested in that sort of thing! You certainly don’t seem to care about them when they’re on me.”

Before he has a chance to say anything, her face falls slightly. “Do you- oh- I mean- are you...” the ire falls off her shoulders like a cloak, replaced with a fidgeting nervousness. “Do you like to... wear them?”

Sherlock laughs, because no other reaction seems appropriate right now. “Molly, no, I’m not-” he raises his hands, cutting her off as she tries to speak again. “I simply wanted to make your morning routine easier for you. See how they’re all neatly arranged? Colour, size, usage. Now whenever you’ve gained your monthly three pounds of bloat you’ll be able to find the comfortable ugly bra much quicker.”

Apparently this was entirely the wrong thing to say, because Wrathful Molly is back with a vengeance. Her face is red and blotchy, and Sherlock notices she’s gripping the hem of her own cardigan with enough force to whiten her knuckles.

“Sherlock bloody Holmes, get the hell out of my bedroom. And while you’re at it, get out of my flat.”

An unfamiliar feeling settles over Sherlock’s shoulders. He’s not used to being chastised like this. Molly’s face softens as she stares at him. She’s always been better at reading his emotions than nearly everyone aside from John.

“Oh, Sherlock. It’s fine. Just... from now on stay out of my pants, would you?” Realising what she’s said, she flushes again, but this time it’s with a wistful little smile. “I mean, um, the drawer. Where my pants are. Oh, you know what I meant.”

Rather than risk another visit from Molly’s angry side, Sherlock smirks and nods, retreating to the sofa where he’s been grabbing a few hours of sleep here and there. And if he notices the next morning that Molly’s wearing the comfortable ugly bra, he knows it’s best if he says nothing.


	18. It's for an experiment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> DO NOT READ THIS IF SPIDERS MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE.
> 
> So apparently, right around the time that filming of S3 started in Cardiff, they discovered the presence of an [asbestos-contaminated tarantula](http://www.walesonline.co.uk/news/need-to-read/2013/03/21/asbestos-contaminated-tarantula-could-be-on-the-loose-in-cardiff-91466-33028980/). I like to imagine Sherlock is to blame.

It’s the sound of the blowtorch that gets John’s attention. With trepidation, he heads into the kitchen.

“Sherlock! Bloody Christ, what are you doing? It’s just a harmless Chilean Rose Tarantula. They’re placid, unless you start chasing them around with a blowtorch!”

Sherlock sighs, the dramatic, put-upon sigh of one whose genius is being overlooked yet again.

“I’m not trying to hurt it, John. It’s an experiment.”

John peers into the aquarium housing the poor spider before turning to glare at Sherlock.

“I know it’s been a while since we’ve had the fire-safety lecture, Sherlock, but really?” He points emphatically at the blowtorch.

Rather than respond, Sherlock reaches into the glass box and lets the tarantula clamber up onto his gloved hand. He smiles at it and turns to John.

“Asbestos, John!”

John’s brow furrows as he prepares to ask a question he’s not certain he wants the answer to. “Asbestos?”

“Her fur has been coated in it.” Sherlock strokes the tarantula’s back delicately with one finger.

“Okay, first of all, shouldn’t you be wearing a mask or something then? Second, and more importantly, _why_?”

The shrug John receives in reply is clear and emphatic as any verbal response would be. _Why not._ John scowls and looks up at the ceiling, trying to calm his breathing.

“So you mean to tell me that we’ve got a fire-retardant tarantula in the flat now.”

When Sherlock doesn’t respond, John looks back down at him. For once, Sherlock looks vaguely repentant.

“Well, John. I hope she’s still in the flat.”

It’s at that point that John notices Sherlock’s hand, previously home to said fire-retardant tarantula, is now empty.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And because I am a ridiculous human being, here is an image of [Sherlock and the tarantula, whose name is now Millicent.](http://moonblossom.tumblr.com/post/46106673928/sherlock-and-millicent-the-fire-retardant)


	19. Spring Fling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this lovely and slightly sad-looking [photo of Loo Brealey](http://teriasxxs.tumblr.com/post/44932434614)

_I should have known he was never going to come. He asked me right before asking to sneak into my pathology classes._ _Stupid, naive Molly. I should know better. But damn him and his stupid brain and his stupid cheekbones._

_  
_She sighs and stares out the window of her dorm. The weather, for once, is appropriate to a spring formal. The day had been bright and blue, and now the setting sun is casting a golden glow on everything. Everything except Molly.

Even the fairy lights she’d draped across the mirror aren’t cheering her up the way they normally do. She stares at her phone, debating texting him, asking why he hasn’t shown up yet.

Maybe she should just go by herself. She spent all that time doing her hair, even bought a cute new dress. She’s about to grab her shoes and barge out of the dorm before she chickens out when there’s a knock at the door.

John Watson, Sherlock’s dorm-mate, is standing there, looking awkward but strangely adorable in a suit that doesn’t fit him quite right.

He grins and holds out a corsage, and for a moment Molly is supremely confused. Is he looking for Irene? It’s rough sharing a dorm with the most gorgeous, most popular girl on campus sometimes.

“Hey, Molly. I was, um…” He shifts his weight. It’s kind of cute. Not like Sherlock, but there’s something endearing about him. “I’d asked Sherlock to come to the formal with me but he told me he couldn’t go in case you were there. I got him to tell me what he did to you, and thought it was pretty crummy. Then I thought, since we’re both stuck here, waiting around, maybe you and I could go?” He pauses, biting his lip. “You know, just as mates? Since we’re both all dressed up and shit.” _  
_

He shrugs, trying to be nonchalant. It’s clear he’d rather be taking Sherlock, but then, so would Molly.

“Why not? We can have fun without him, right?”

The look on John’s face is strangely earnest, and a little bit sad. “I hope so.”

Smiling, he holds his arm out to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't ship Molly and John, but I can absolutely see them banding together and commiserating over Sherlock, no matter the universe.


	20. Bathtime

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by the photos of the bathtub on set, and [this graphic](http://shylocks.tumblr.com/post/47793341705).

Sighing contentedly, John lowers himself into the bathtub. He’s even gone and indulged in stealing a bit of Sherlock’s ridiculously expensive shower gel, and the bath is covered in a thick layer of foamy suds. It’s ridiculously extravagant, but after the day he’s just had, he deserves it.

He can hear Sherlock banging around outside, but manages to tune it out. Right now the world is narrowed down to the warm, moist space of the bathroom. John, the water, the bubbles. Nothing else.

He should have known it wasn’t going to last though. Before John even has time to sink down under the water and let the heat soothe his aching muscles, Sherlock kicks the door in.

“Oi! Sherlock, I’m naked in here.”

Sherlock cocks his head, confusion plain on his face. “I should hope so, John. Taking a bath with your pants on is inefficient.”

Groaning, John shifts slightly, ensuring at the very least that his cock is covered by the frothy suds of the bath. Knowing that trying to reason with Sherlock is a lost cause, John just glares at him. The effect is spoiled somewhat by a trickle of water falling into his eye and causing him to squint.

“Can I help you with something, Sherlock? Or were you just bored with the view in the lounge?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Where did you put the potassium permanganate? And the sulfuric acid?”

Covering his face with his hands, John slides down under the surface of the water. He’s all contorted now, and probably exposing himself in an unflattering manner, but somehow that doesn’t seem important anymore.

Resigned, John sits up again, feeling the warm water slide off him.

“Sherlock, you are not going to make things explode while I am in the tub. And would you please, for the love of god, stop barging in here while I am naked and trying to relax?”

Sherlock shrugs. “Suit yourself. It seems a shame to waste that bath though.”

John looks down at the water. “What do you mean, waste it?”

“Well, I am going to blow things up whether you’re in there or not. If you insist on supervising, you’re going to have to get out of the tub.”

“This is a lost cause, isn’t it?”

The grin Sherlock gives John in response is at once utterly charming and completely bloody infuriating.

“Just give me my towel, you sodding git.”


	21. Tis the Season

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little bit of entirely out-of-season Christmas fluff, inspired by [this gifset and the chain of conversation beneath it.](http://capt-john-h-watson-md.tumblr.com/post/49719559080/sherlockspeare-because-sherlock-is-glancing-at)
> 
> Be gentle, this is the first thing I've written since I had the brain surgery two weeks ago.

The soft, broken strains of Sherlock practicing float out of the lounge, drawing John in. He leans against the door for a moment, studying Sherlock in silence. He must shift his weight and cause the floorboards to creak or something, because Sherlock pauses and looks up, smiling at him.

“You’re going to make her evening, you know that? You’re not as cold as you’d like people to think.”

Sherlock huffs, trying (and failing) to hide a smile. “Not for her. She’s a special case.”

“You going to wear the antlers, then?”

The look on Sherlock’s face is priceless. A mask of unguarded horror. “Certainly not. They’re ridiculous. Even for Mrs. Hudson.”

John grins. “Have you even tried them on? C’mon, humour me.”

Sherlock narrows his gaze, but John continues to smile passively, holding the antlers at arm’s length. He shakes them lightly, causing the bells to jingle. It’s a bit like playing with a cat.

Before John even has time to notice, Sherlock’s snatched the antlers out of John’s hand and pulled them onto his head. They’re mussing his curls in an entirely new way, and he’s right, he looks completely absurd. John can’t help the barking laugh that escapes his lips.

“See?!” Sherlock grumbles and pulls them off, throwing them onto the sofa. “There’s no way anyone is ever going to see me wearing them.”

There’s a playful glint in John’s eye. “Someone just did, Sherlock?”

The irritation melts off Sherlock’s face, fades into something softer, indefinable. “Yes, but you’re different.”


	22. Guests for Dinner

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this [Hannibal/Sherlock crossover gifset](http://hatman-and-batman.tumblr.com/post/50259889980/hanlock-au-sherlock-hannibal-hannibal-thinks-he). Dr. Lecter finds a few things in Sherlock's fridge and thinks he has found a kindred spirit.

The tongues were in the oven, the sauce simmering on the stovetop. A reduction of blackberries and the vitreous fluid from inside the eyeballs he’d found in the fridge.

Mr. Holmes was fascinating, in his own way. Coarse and rude, but Hannibal was willing to overlook that for the time being; it was unusual to be more interested in the workings of someone’s mind than the brain it was housed in, especially when they were so abrasive.

But then he’d found the body parts, all neatly catalogued and organised inside the fridge. He was surprised Mr. Holmes’ room-mate, and a doctor on top of that, allowed it, but they did have a rather unconventional relationship.

He was humming quietly, Donizetti’s “Il Campanello”, when he heard the door opening.

“Welcome home, Mr. Holmes.” He smirked slightly at the silly rhyme. Holmes quirked an eyebrow, acknowledging that they were both above the low-brow humour.

“Dr. Lecter, what a surprise. Why are you here?”

“I took the liberty of preparing a supper for you and Dr. Watson. Does he indulge as well, or just turn a blind eye when you do it?”

For a moment, Sherlock looked off his footing. Hannibal fixed the image in his mind, suspecting it was a rare thing indeed.

“Indulge? In eating?”

“Eating the… finer things.” Hannibal waved one hand over the pot. “I found the tongues and the eyeballs in the refrigerator. It’s rare when one finds people with a common interest.”

The expression Holmes gave him was one Hannibal had never seen. It was an impossible combination of mild revulsion, fascination, and exultation.

“Aha. I thought so.” The detective nearly shouted.

“Thought what?”

“Your interest in a more esoteric diet. From the way you held your knife at the restaurant last night.”

Hannibal looked down at his hands.

“Ah, yes, of course. Well, I do hope this doesn’t make things awkward. It would be a shame to… waste that brain of yours.”

He grinned at this, and for a moment Hannibal was reminded of some predatory cat. Those strange, pale eyes glinted in the dim light.

“And give up the experience of a lifetime?” He leaned over the counter, and dipped his finger into the saucepan. Hannibal had to restrain himself from rapping Holmes’ knuckles with a spoon. “I think not.”


	23. Three-sentence AUs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a little different - I opened my inbox on tumblr to the following prompt:  
> 1) Give me a pairing.  
> 2) Give me an AU setting.  
> 3) I will write you a three-sentence fic.
> 
> These are the Sherlock-centric results!

_**sherlock/john, sherlock is a centaur <3** _

> Captain Watson held his hand out, calm and confident, allowing the beautiful creature to approach him on his own terms. The centaur raised one haughty eyebrow and approached with less caution than John was anticipating - bold curiosity plainly written across his exotic features.
> 
> "Afghanistan, or Iraq?"

* * *

**_Molly & Greg, 1950s greaser/punk au_ **

> Greg fumbled nervously with his sweatervest as the gorgeous leggy brunette in the leather jacket strode towards him, running a comb through her elaborate liberty-rolled hair and snapping her gum.
> 
> "Hey, geek! Meet me behind St. Bart’s after work."

* * *

**_Molly and Irene, robots_ **

> The closest thing Irene ever felt to an emotion was the strange electrical crackle in the back of her circulation unit whenever she caught a glimpse of Molly’s tongue stuck out in heavy concentration.
> 
> Right now she was sitting cross-legged on the floor, looking exasperated as she bent over Irene’s detached right manual dexterity unit, surrounded by tiny screws and microchips.
> 
> "Honestly, Irene, you really need to stop spanking them so hard."

* * *

_**Mystrade, friendship, with dragons?** _

 

> The amphisbaena rolled and wobbled along the road in front of them, and Mycroft held his sword at the ready, but Greg reached out and stilled his arm.
> 
> "No, let it go, it’s small and I feel an odd kinship with it."
> 
> "Perhaps," Mycroft smirked, raising one articulate brow, “because it goes both ways?"

* * *

_**Johnlock + Bewitched** _

> John loved watching Sherlock do magic. The mystery, excitement, and usefulness were all marvelous, yes, but they weren’t John’s favourite part.
> 
> No, John’s favourite part, as absurd as it may be, was the way Sherlock’s nose crinkled so endearingly whenever he cast a spell - nobody else John had ever known had ended up with a  _horizontal_  crease between their brows like that.

* * *

_**Johnlock, Last Unicorn** _

> John is happy, living in this castle, spending his days (and his nights) with Prince Sherlock, and he’s grateful to King Mycroft for having taken him in.
> 
> But sometimes John has vague memories of being  _different_ , vague memories of being  _alone_ , of running through the forest, of a gleaming, perfect horn where that scar on his forehead is now.
> 
> And he’s not sure what any of it means.

* * *

_**Sheriarty, merman AU. ;)** _

> He darts in and out of the water, his tail sleek and silver as a shark’s and his grin full of gleaming pointy teeth, pointedly avoiding Captain Sherlock’s net.
> 
> His voice is a taunting sing-song, musical and enthralling and infuriating all at once. "No-one ever catches me, and no-one ever will."

* * *

_**Mrs. Hudson, Angelo. Sweeney Todd AU** _

> Mrs. Hudson bustles into the back of the kitchen, whistling to herself as she drops a bloody, dripping bag onto the counter.
> 
> "Some fresh meat for your sausages, Angelo darling. And remind me later, I need to put out an ad for a lovely flat to let."

* * *

_**Vampire Sherlock and his Bloodmate John.** _

> It’s been getting more difficult to pull away for a while now - Sherlock can’t help it, John’s blood is so sweet, so delicious, it nearly sings to him. The idea of feeding from anyone else is abhorrent.
> 
> But not as abhorrent as the idea of never feeding from John again…

* * *

**_John realizes that it isn't really Sherlock._ **

> In the end, it’s the eyes that give it away. Sherlock’s eyes have always been strangely mercurial, ethereal, and plenty of other poetic adjectives that he’d have scoffed at had he known what John was thinking.
> 
> But now, John realises with an unsettling crawl of his skin, they just look  _wrong._

* * *

**Sherlock has deleted where butterflies come from, gets upset when he can't explain them.**

> "But how, John?! How can something go from a crawling, awkward, ungainly blob to such a delicate, ethereal, flighty miracle of evolution?"
> 
> John sneaks a glimpse of the photo of Sherlock as an infant he’d lifted from Mycroft months ago and smirks. “How indeed?"

* * *

_**Johnlock! Zombie Fighting!!!!** _

> "A  _cricket bat_ , John?"
> 
> John swings the, balancing the his stance around the heft and weight of the thing, and knocks the head off the shambling undead who was about to bite into his oblivious idiot boyfriend.
> 
> "You were saying something, Sherlock?"

* * *

**_Sally/Uhura, military training._ **

> Nyota eyed the new recruit with barely more than idle curiosity, but didn’t get her hopes up at first. It wasn’t until she got to watch Donovan run through the obstacle course with grim determination, sweat flattening her lush curls and highlighting the rich gleam of her skin that she let herself feel anything akin to real interest.
> 
> And then the new recruit caught her eye and  _winked_.

* * *

_**sherlock and john are on a game show** _

> "Sherlock, you didn’t phrase your answer in the form of a question."
> 
> "But I wasn’t asking a question, I was giving you an answer!"
> 
> "I’m sorry, Mr. Holmes, but those are the rules."
> 
> "Well then the rules are wrong!"

* * *

_**Sherlock attempts to bake for John** _

> John’s eyes widened as Sherlock deftly bruléed the surface of the little custard, happy that he’d found a more kitchen-appropriate use for the blowlamp. He cracked the sugar top with the back of his spoon and the pleasure he felt as he swallowed the first bite must have been clear on his face, because Sherlock grinned widely.
> 
> "It’s simple chemistry, after all, John."

* * *

_**Sherlock and John in a strangely magical circus.** _

> The haggard old crone in the fortune-teller’s tent caught Sherlock’s eye and grinned, wide and toothless, before mouthing  _I know the truth_  at him. He grabbed John’s arm and pulled him along, making it clear he had no interest in lingering.
> 
> "The fortune-teller spooking  _you_  of all people, Sherlock?"

* * *

_**It was just a dream** _

> The memories of Sherlock, vibrant and vital and alive, flood though John’s head. Of him showing up on the doorstep last night; of John’s knuckles colliding with those infernal cheekbones; of soft lips and clever fingers under his jumper shortly afterwards.
> 
> When John gets downstairs, the flat is as dark and empty and echoing as it has ever been, until it’s broken apart again with the shattering of a dropped mug.

* * *

_**Sally Donovan and Martin Crieff, fancy dress party. :D** _

> "An  _aeroplane,_ Martin?" Sally bit her lip, trying to avoid giggling as the poor pilot flushed as red as his hair. He looked so nervous and so adorable that she couldn’t help it, she leaned in and brushed a kiss against his cheek, his skin burning hot against her lips.

* * *

_**only sherlock can see John. everyone thinks he is crazy.** _

> Mycroft sighed, watching his younger brother chatting animatedly to the empty chair next to him. He hadn’t seen Sherlock look so engaged and so enthusiastic in years, so when the nurse began to prepare his daily syringe, Mycroft shook his head subtly.
> 
> "Let him be happy for a bit longer."

* * *

_**they first met in kindergarten** _

> The teachers had given up hope on getting Sherlock Holmes to speak or interact with the other children, so when John Watson joined the class and ran directly towards the awkward little boy, they held in a collective breath.
> 
> "Hi, I’m John, and I like your stuffed bee!"
> 
> Sherlock cocked his head and one of the teachers stood up, ready to intervene if necessary, but kept still as Sherlock smiled shyly and held the bee out to John.

* * *

_**Hands are magnetic to only their soulmate!** _

> When Sherlock reaches out to take the army doctor’s phone, he feels it like a jolt right to the middle of his chest. The phone crackles and the screen goes dim, trapped in the distortion field between their palms. He looks up to see the man studiously staring at their hands, and smiles.

* * *

_**John can see Sherlock's aura. Sherlock has a hard time understanding what his aura means to John.** _

> "Sherlock, you don’t understand! It’s blue and silver and green and pearly and  _amazing_  and I wish I could show you what it looks like."
> 
> "No, John, you’re right, I don’t understand. There’s no scientific explanation for that sort of new-age nonsense, and I honestly thought you were more reasonable than that."

* * *

_**Humans walk around without a heartbeat cold and gray, until they see their soulmate...** _

> The thrumming heartbeat comes on hard and fast, a furious pounding in Sherlock’s chest. He looks around, trying to figure out who set it off, but his vision is obscured by a short, unassuming man with dusty hair and a psychosomatic limp.
> 
> _Oh…_

* * *

_**Sherlock/John- On a plane (fluff please?)** _

> John settled into his seat, anticipating a long, boring trip with an irritating, bored Sherlock.
> 
> Within minutes of takeoff, though, Sherlock fallen soundly asleep, his features soft and slack as he nuzzled his face into the curve of John’s shoulder. Chuckling quietly to himself, John pulled the flimsy little blanket over Sherlock as best he could.

* * *

_**Watson/Holmes meet during Gold Rush** _

> Watson sighed heavily, shaking out yet another empty pan as he stood up.
> 
> "This part of the river is rubbish - come with me, I know a much better spot."
> 
> The man was tall and angular, and far better dressed than anyone out here in the Klondike had a right to be, and yet somehow Watson was certain he knew exactly what he was talking about.

* * *

_**Johnlock, future space AU - crawling out of wreckage of their space ship...** _

> The air was black and heavy with acrid chemical smoke, and John fought to breathe as he picked his way through the battered remains of what had once been the 221B Baker. He picked his way to the other escape capsule and peered into the window, only to be greeted with a surrealist painting of Sherlock lying completely still, vibrant blood flowing from his temple.
> 
> Whole body trembling with fear, John pulled the front of the capsule off and pressed two fingers to Sherlock’s throat, desperately seeking a pulse.

* * *

_**Johnlock, Film Noir.** _

> The private dick leaning casually on his desk was gorgeous - legs that went on for miles and cheekbones you coulda cut glass with. The office was dim and dingy, but his eyes glimmered with smarts and spunk as he nodded at his new client. John knew he’d be in good hands.

* * *

_**Cooking AU Johnlock, Moriarty is a restaurant critic.** _

> When John got home from running errands, there was a sheet of newsprint pinned to the wall of the lounge with one of Sherlock’s good knives.
> 
> "Another glowing review, then?"
> 
> In lieu of a response, Sherlock glared at John, who just smiled indulgently and ruffled his hair.

* * *

_**Good Omens AU.** _

> Sherlock had spent all afternoon terrorising the plants, threatening and shouting and generally otherwise being a terrible fallen angel. There was no denying that the plants all looked full and lush and vibrant, so clearly his efforts had been working.
> 
> What he wasn’t aware of, mind you, was that whenever he was done, John would quietly creep around the flat murmuring gentle endearments and soothing support to the poor things.

* * *

 

_**Pirates! Sherstrade!** _

> Sherlock’s keen eye scanned the horizon, but he was vaguely aware of a presence looming behind him. He spun around to find the first mate eyeing him with a gleam in his eye.
> 
> "Greg, if you make one more remark about  _plundering my booty_  I am going to abandon you on the next rocky outcrop we come across."

* * *

_**fem Johnlock, 1920s** _

> Janey’s cheeks flushed an absolutely charming shade of pink as her eyes took in the scene before her as she managed to stammer out "Sherlock… is this… is this a _petting party_?"
> 
> Sherlock grinned, khol-rimmed eyes sparkling, and nodded in the direction of one particularly active young lady. “Yes, and I think the murderess is right where we wanted her."

* * *

_**Johnlock prison!fic?** _

> John grit his teeth and contracted his stomach muscles in anticipation of the beating he was no doubt about to receive, when a rich, booming voice cut through the murmured noise of the exercise yard.
> 
> "I said  _stay away from the new one, he’s **mine**._ ”
> 
> The man who’d apparently claimed him was gorgeous, with pale eyes, sharp cheekbones, plush lips pursed around a cigarette, and if the expression on his face was anything to go by, he was also completely fucking bonkers.

* * *

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	24. Little Blue Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little ficlet, loosely inspired by the casting news stemming from Sherlock S3E3. Based on part of the canon story it looks like this episode is inspired by. I'm trying to be vague here, folks. If you're familiar with canon and trying to avoid spoilers, skip this one XD

Sherlock had left his coat on John’s chair. Again. John picked it up, with the intention of hanging it up on the coat hook when he was distracted by a muffled thunk. He looked around on the floor, trying to figure out what had caused it, when a small blue velvet box caught his eye. It was a few inches square, with a small hinge on one side. A bog-standard ring box.

He bent down to pick it up, and, curiosity getting the better of him, went to open it. It’s not as if Sherlock even pretended to give John the courtesy of privacy, so John could snoop a bit and be absolutely justified.

Inside the box was an engagement ring. A very typical, very girly engagement ring. The band was white gold - or possibly platinum - inset with a large marquise-cut diamond. It was exactly the sort of thing you’d see in any bridal magazine, lovely but devoid of personality. Even so, the proper owner of the ring probably missed it, and John felt a small flare of irritation at Sherlock for having nicked it in the first place, whatever his reasons had been. He pocketed it.

"Sherlock?!"

There was a vague grunt of acknowledgement from Sherlock’s bedroom and John headed down the hall. He stuck his head into Sherlock’s room and tossed the box at him.

"Alright, you bloody magpie. Who’d you nick that from? Is it evidence?"

Sherlock put down the book he’d been reading, picked up the box and looked at John. “Thank you, John. I don’t want to lose this. And I’ll have you know - " he put on a nearly-comedic expression of feigned hurt " - that I didn’t _nick_ it from anyone. I bought it. I should hope she likes it."

John’s heart thudded furiously and oddly in his chest, the noise drowned out by the ringing in his ears. Surely Sherlock didn’t have… a… girlfriend?! Certainly not one he was close enough to marry?! John’s vision blurred at the edges, taking on a faintly reddish cast. 

He wasn’t jealous. Of course he wasn’t. That was absurd. He was just hurt. Hurt that his best friend had apparently gotten so close to someone else, and hadn’t even bothered to fucking tell him! He gripped the door frame tightly, trying in vain to calm his breathing. 

Sherlock had gone back to his book, apparently oblivious to John’s emotional crisis. Fuming, John stormed back down the hall to the lounge, intent on convincing himself that he absolutely, positively, was not _jealous_.


	25. Shared flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by this [beautiful drawing by 由利 on pixiv](http://www.pixiv.net/member_illust.php?mode=medium&illust_id=34028820)

It hurt. It hurt almost more than anything John had ever lived through. That wrenching, that tearing apart. Removing one’s own wing was akin to removing part of one’s soul.

But as Sherlock lay there, silent and vulnerable and unconscious, the thread of life fluttering so faintly within him, there was no question in John’s mind. He knew this was the right thing to do.

Gently, carefully, he severed the wing and with an impossibly steady hand, he sliced Sherlock’s back open, just to the right of his spine. With skilled surgeon’s hands and angel’s magic, he transplanted the wing, reattaching bone and vein and tendon and sinew. The whole time, Sherlock’s breath was faint against John’s thigh, but mercifully steady.

After what felt like years, the work was done, and John cradled Sherlock in his hands, waiting to find out if it would take. Eventually, Sherlock’s face nuzzled sleepily against John’s thigh, and the wing fluttered and stretched, his body instinctively testing the bonds and connections. John let out a shuddering breath and stroked the soft curls at Sherlock’s nape.

"John?" Sherlock’s voice was muffled with sleep and trauma. "My back feels odd."

"Shh, Sherlock. You fell, you hurt yourself. I’ve taken care of it. Sleep for now."

Pliant and obliging for the first time in his life, Sherlock nodded off again, and John’s heart-rate settled for the first time since seeing him jump.


	26. The magic's afoot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Little Elementary Hogwarts AU ficlet this time, thanks to [against-stars' adorable artwork.](http://against-stars.tumblr.com/post/56203818585/good-morning-miss-watson-get-dressed-we-have)

"WATSON!"

Joan groaned as the bright light flooded the relative safety of her canopy bed. She rolled over, one arm shielding her eyes, but she knew the gesture was useless. She’d long stopped trying to figure out if Sherlock was sneaking his way in or just solving the riddles the Ravenclaw doorknocker came up with - either option was equally plausible.

"Watson hurry! Here are your clothes!" She glared at Sherlock with as much ire as she could muster in her sleep-addled state as he dumped her clothes - and Clyde - on her bed.

"Come on then! Get dressed! Rubella Weasley’s bookbag has gone missing and I promised we’d find it."

"Sherlock, if you think I’m getting dressed with you in here…"

"Oh, of course. My apologies." Sherlock spun on his heels, but made no move to actually leave the enclosure of the drapery. With another long-suffering sigh Joan sat up and shrugged. The quicker she was dressed, the quicker they’d be out and about, and the quicker he’d stop driving her batty.


	27. Spotted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's inspiration comes from [this adorable drawing of freckly Sherlock, courtesy of aiwa-sensei](http://aiwa-sensei.tumblr.com/post/57607493376/its-so-damned-hot-outside-summer-comes-and-i)

The kitchen door slams, causing John to look up. Sherlock’s standing there, shirtsleeves rolled up in an effort to combat the heat, and all it’s managed to do is frame the heavy smattering of freckles on his forearms even more effectively. They run up his throat and across his ridiculous bloody cheekbones, and John immediately finds himself imagining where else they might be. Could they have spread across his collarbone, across the smooth, pale expanse of his back? John’s fingers twitch subtly, urging to stroke and explore.

The look on Sherlock’s face is murderous and combative, as if he’s daring John to make a joke. John gulps, his tongue suddenly thick and sticky. He pulls his hand back.

"Hello, Sherlock." he manages to choke out.

"Don’t even say it. Whatever you’re thinking, keep it to yourself."

John blinks. “What? No.. It’s…” he shifts awkwardly in his seat, hoping that Sherlock’s too angry and distracted to notice his burgeoning arousal. He’s too old to be getting this worked up over his lover with a bad case of freckles. Sadly, this is not the case. Sherlock turns his pointed gaze to John, studying him inquisitively.

"Really, John?" He drops his voice to a low, teasing purr. "A freckle fetish?”

John feels the blush raise across his cheeks and looks down, studying the carpet intently. Normally John has no qualms about voicing what he wants or needs from Sherlock in the bedroom, but somehow this particular kink embarrasses him, and he can’t quite pinpoint why.

Sherlock paces across the lounge, stalking John in all his freckly glory. A jaguar today, instead of a panther. Gracefully, he drops down in front of John’s chair and peers up at him. He reaches out to stroke the line of John’s jaw, and John notices a smattering of the bloody spots on the inside of his forearm and has to grip the arms of the chair to prevent himself from knocking Sherlock to the floor and licking them.

"What was her name, then?" Sherlock murmurs, curiosity thinly veiling the jealous undertone.

"Aileen. She… she was my first." John’s voice is mortifyingly ragged. He stares at Sherlock’s broad throat, the trail of freckles creeping down under the collar of his white shirt.

Sherlock smirks, rubbing John’s blush with his thumb. “First with freckles, or first in general?” He laughs, cutting John off before he can answer, he already knows the answer, he’s just teasing. “Well, what do you say to making me your last with freckles?”

John barely has time to nod before Sherlock pounces, nearly knocking the chair over as he throws himself onto John.


	28. Morning routine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this post](http://cecilianbaldwin.tumblr.com/post/58274084447/john-getting-out-of-the-shower-and-looking-at)  
> cecilianbaldwin: john getting out of the shower and looking at himself in the mirror seeing his scar and runs his hands over it and into the grooves of it he almost starts crying but wills himself to stop and puts a war face on and goes out into the living room and sherlock can tell something is wrong

This is always the worst time of day. The air in the bathroom is warm and muggy, so different from the dry, hot air of the desert, but somehow the two have ended up inextricably linked in his mind. John steps out of the shower. He takes them so hot. Too hot. His chest is flushed red, blood drawn to the surface of his thin skin. Vivid red skin, vibrant and alive, highlighting the puckered starburst of inert, shiny scar tissue.

John reaches out and wipes the foggy haze off the mirror, tries to wipe the puckered scar off his skin. The reminder of the failure he was, the useless weight he’s become. Reminder of the times he nearly died; not once, like his dossier claims, but twice. He wonders what would have happened if he hadn’t met Sherlock that day. Would he have had the bollocks to go through with it?

He grips the edge of the sink and gulps in a shuddering breath.

_Get it together, Watson._

Groaning, thighs trembling, he sinks to the floor and leans against the wall. He presses his face against the cool porcelain tile. It’s beautifully soothing. He reaches up to scrub the tears out of his eyes before they can fall, and notices his left hand is trembling, far more violently than it has in ages.

He’s not sure how long he lies there, balled up on the bathroom floor like so much dirty laundry. Eventually, he manages to calm his ragged breathing and slow his racing heart. He gets up and dresses methodically. Vest, shirt buttoned all the way to his throat, thick jumper. Armour, hiding his flaws from the world. He studies himself in the mirror. His eyes are clear, his colour even. If the rings under his eyes are a little too dark, the muscles in his jaw a little too tense, well there’s nothing to be done for that.

Squaring his shoulders, he walks down the hall into the lounge where Sherlock is draped in his chair. He stands immediately, a curious look on his face.

“John. What’s wr—“ John nods minutely, cutting Sherlock off. Sherlock, for once in his life, listens. He walks past John, toward the kitchen, hand gently brushing against John’s arm as he does. It could have been an accident, but it wasn’t. Feigned nonchalance masking bone-deep concern.

John feels a pang in his chest, a weight lifting off his shoulders. How had he ended up living with this impossible man, this man who claimed to take pride in his lack of tact, in his disdain of basic human emotion. This man who could soothe everything with a disjointed brush of his fingers.

He turns to study Sherlock, who is rummaging in one of the cupboards. He holds up two mugs.

“Shall I make some tea, then?”

Impossibly grateful, John smiles.


	29. Hold the phone

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [anotherwellkeptsecret posted this adorable image of Sherlock dropping his phone on his face.](http://anotherwellkeptsecret.tumblr.com/post/58743719445/i-doodled-this-at-work-on-break-i-feel-like-this) You know it's happened at least once, the way he lounges on that damned sofa. I couldn't resist turning it into a bit of fluff.

"Mmgph."

The noise causes John to look up over the newspaper. Sherlock’s lying flat on his back, his mobile glaring brightly into his face. John manages to stifle a laugh.

"You know, Sherlock, if you sat up like a proper adult this wouldn’t happen so frequently."

"I did it on purpose." Sherlock’s voice is muffled - he still hasn’t moved the mobile. It’s also wounded and embarrassed and John can’t help the smile that spreads across his face as he gets up and walks across the lounge.

"You… dropped your mobile? On your face? On purpose?"

"I was testing the weight and velocity of it. Trying to determine if it could have been used as a weapon."

Gently, John lifts the mobile off Sherlock’s face and strokes his reddened nose.

"You are an utterly ridiculous human being, you know that? I also don’t believe you one bit."

He grins again and leans over the arm of the couch, pressing a soft kiss to Sherlock’s wounded face. Sherlock grumbles and resolutely does not kiss back, which only makes John smile more.


	30. The View From Down Here

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm feeling kind of burnt out and depressed about my surgery recovery, and where I'm at in the process, so I asked some friends to toss cute prompts at me, and got "Fluffy 69". This is what happened.

A tremor runs up John’s thighs as Sherlock’s lips purse, forming a tight, heart-shaped seal around the head of John’s cock. The sight is mesmerising and John’s own mouth goes slack, his head craned at an awkward angle as he tries to take in as much of the gorgeous picture at the foot of the bed as he can.

Sherlock’s eyes are shut tight, his lips and cheeks rosy with arousal and exertion. His curls bob madly as he moves his head, and John feels a twinge low in his abdomen, letting him know his orgasm is getting closer.

He bites his lip, vaguely aware that there’s something he was supposed to be doing, but he’s pretty certain whatever it is can wait.

His back arches, his balls start to tighten, when Sherlock pulls off him with a wet pop and a smirk before nipping gently at the soft skin of his inner thigh.

"It’s a good thing I find you so tolerable, John, even when you’re being distracted and useless."

John shakes his head, confused. “Enh?”

"I may not have as much experience as you do, but I was under the impression that the whole point of this sixty-nine position is that it’s  ** _mutually_**  beneficial.”


	31. 221b: Back

John runs one trembling hand over the cashmere puddled on the table. It had fallen out of his bag, along with the blouse for Mrs. Hudson and the earrings for Mary. He doesn't even remember buying it, but it’s on the receipt. At least he hasn't resorted to petty theft.

It's not quite right. It's one solid shade of blue, no subtle stripes. It's too soft. Sherlock would probably complain. Sherlock would... No. Sherlock won't be doing anything.

He sucks in one long, shuddering breath, fingers weaving through the fringe on the end for a moment.

Part of him wants to keep it. Wants to hold onto it, in case Sherlock barges through the door, like Father Christmas in some terrible old movie. Carrying a sack of limbs, perhaps. _I'm home, John. Come along, there's a case!_

Frustrated, John rubs his eyes with the back of his hand, resolutely ignoring the moisture he finds there. He picks up the receipt and finds the phone number at the top.

"Yes, hello? I was wondering..." His voice does not break. It absolutely does not. "What your return policy was? I purchased something as a gift, but it's not quite right."

The voice coming through the handset is chirpy and positive, and all wrong. "Not a problem at all, sir, we'll take it back."


	32. Poolside

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little smutty banter to make up for yesterday's angst. Inspired by [this post](http://pati79.tumblr.com/post/68922985649/i-know-the-long-legs-are-all-wrong-but-what-i-see)

John opens the door to their room, smirking at the long, lightly sunburnt expanse of Sherlock’s back that greets him.

"Hey. Hey."

"Gmgph."

Sherlock is at his most eloquent, which means he really is mortified. Grinning, John crosses the small room and sits on the edge of the bed, running his fingers across the dip at the base of Sherlock’s spine, where the skin is still milk-pale and cool.

"It happens to everyone, you know."

There’s an incoherent mumble from Sherlock, swallowed by the ugly tropical-print coverlet on the bed.

"Who was it then?" John teases gently. "That woman on the lounger down at the end? That tiny little black bikini with all the straps? Reminded me a bit of Irene."

This earns him a withering glare over Sherlock’s shoulder.

"No? The cute little brunette with the cherry print? A little bit Molly-ish, don’t you think?" Smiling, he runs his hand over Sherlock’s arse.

With a groan, Sherlock rolls over, the outline of his cock still half-hard in his snug black swim shorts. He narrows his eyes at John. John can’t help it, he runs his fingers across Sherlock’s abdomen, grinning eagerly as Sherlock’s cock twitches and thickens slowly, further stretching the fabric.

"You know exactly what caused it, you insufferable little man. Those red trunks of yours are obscene."

"Mmm." John preens, fingers dipping just below the waistband of Sherlock’s shorts. "I bought them for you."

"Stop it, John. I can’t go back out there like this." Sherlock’s voice is needy and plaintive, and it kicks John’s libido into overdrive.

Shifting, he settles down on the bed next to Sherlock, his hand trailing ever further downward.

"Well then, we’ll just have to stay in here for a few minutes. What a shame."


	33. A foot apart

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What really happened after the drunk Rizla game in The Sign of Three. Inspired by [these posts](http://bennyslegs.tumblr.com/post/77191424811/martinfreeman-pour-some-out-for-the-foot-job)

John’s not exactly sure who started it. He vaguely remembers Sherlock suggesting something about how his shoes looked pinchy. He giggles to himself. Pinchy. Sounds like something Sherlock would say.

His toes are running across the thick seam on the leather cushion. In his state everything’s a bit fuzzy, a bit blurry around the edges, but his toes are as sensitive as they've ever been. He nudges Sherlock’s thigh with his foot, and Sherlock doesn’t even try to muffle the funny, wobbly little moan.

Slowly, like the petals of a flower unfurling, Sherlock spreads his legs. John’s heart skips a beat, wobbles a bit, and he knows it’s got nothing to do with the alcohol coursing through his veins.

He raises his eyebrows, nods slightly. Sherlock blinks slowly, one corner of his mouth quirking up in invitation.

"I don’t mind…" the words slip unbidden from John’s lips. But it’s not the booze talking. Maybe it’s the booze sanding the edges off his inhibitions, but fuck, he’s wanted to do this forever.

He slides the ball of his foot slowly up Sherlock’s thigh. Sherlock sighs, sinking into the soft leather of his chair. John slides forward, stretching slightly, as the thin wool of his sock rubs against the thin wool of Sherlock’s trousers.

Even in the dim light, he can see the outline of Sherlock’s cock, thickening, stretching. The clean lines of his trousers are all distorted now, and he makes to unzip himself but John shakes his head, smirking.

"No, I don’t think so."

John’s almost desperate to feel the heft of Sherlock’s erection, but he wants to draw this out. As slowly as he can, he inches his foot up to Sherlock’s cock, pressing his toes gently against the rounded curve of his balls, hanging full and sweet in the vee of those ridiculously long thighs.

Sherlock lets out a pitchy, keening whine and rocks his hips forward, grinding himself into the arch of John’s foot. The contact is shocking, electric, and John can’t hold back any more. He wriggles his foot up, surrounding the thick shaft as best he can.

He thrusts, wriggles, rubs. It’s not the most graceful thing, no finesse to it, but Sherlock’s gasping and moaning, writhing in his chair. His cheeks are pink and flushed, eyes glassy with booze and lust and something else John can’t quite define.

They hang there, suspended between drunk and sober, ridiculous and perfect, friends and lovers, for a moment, and then Sherlock comes with a gasp. John feels him twitching violently against the arch of his foot, feels the warm wetness seeping through the fabric, and pulls his foot away slowly. He adjusts himself in his trousers, fighting the impulse to free himself and have a good wank.

Sherlock stares at him, eyes wide and lips pursed, as though he’s about to say something.

John never does find out what though. The doorbell rings and whatever was hanging in the air dissipates like so much smoke.


	34. In a Name

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspired by [this post by slenderlock](http://slenderlock.tumblr.com/post/78147512031/soulmate-au-where-everyone-has-their-soulmates):
> 
> _soulmate AU where everyone has their soulmate’s name on their wrist and John has “William” on his but after he meets Sherlock he decides to ignore it because he knows that this man is going to be the most important and amazing person he’ll ever meet and then Sherlock dies so he meets Mary and then Sherlock comes back and tells him his full name and John just understands_

William.

 _William_.

Shit.  _Shit shit shit_.

John rubs his wrist, heart shattering into a million shards as the plane taxis down the runway. He walks back to Mary, an invisible anchor dragging behind him, fighting him with every step.

If she can read anything on his face, she says nothing. Let her just think he’s missing his friend.

Suddenly her face lights up, and John blinks, confused. She points and he turns to see the plane turning around in mid-air. His heart swells, painful, filling his whole chest. He can’t breathe.

As soon as Sherlock steps back off the plane, John runs. Doesn’t walk. Runs. _Floats_.

"John."

"Sherlock. I… there’s…"

Fuck it, the words won’t come. John clenches his fist. Relaxes. Clenches. Relaxes.

He raises his arm, pulling his sleeve back.

The smile Sherlock gives him could light up the dark side of the moon. Sherlock reaches up, rolls up his own sleeve, revealing the flowing script on his arm.

"I know, John. I know."


	35. Kiss & Tell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Prompted ficlets, from [this adorable list of kiss-related prompts.](http://moonblossom.tumblr.com/post/88296715274/kissing-fic-meme)

Sherlazarus asked for Jawline Kiss and John/Sherlock.

> Sherlock gasped, fingers fumbling for purchase against the flocking of the wallpaper as John pressed up against him. His heart was pounding in his ears, fluttering in his throat, as the space between them became super-heated. 
> 
> John’s hands were  _everywhere._ Sliding up the back of Sherlock’s jacket, cupping his shoulders. Gripping his waist. Tugging at the fine hairs at the back of his neck. He thought vaguely that he should be reciprocating, but he was too overwhelmed, and what was more, if he let go of the wall he’d likely fall over.
> 
> His eyes fluttered shut as he felt John’s lips, soft and warm and faintly chapped, brushing gently against the sharp line of his jaw. He shivered, and John paused, pulling back slightly.
> 
> "Alright?"
> 
> Sherlock swallowed heavily and nodded. “Yes. Please…”

* * *

 

Solrosan asked for Stomach Kiss (pregnant) and John/Mary/Sherlock.

> Mary leaned back, letting her weight fall against John’s chest. He wrapped his arms around her shoulders, hugging her comfortingly.
> 
> "You don’t have to let him do this, you know." He eyed Sherlock warily. Sherlock was rummaging through the drawers of the small desk in the lounge, pulling out a measuring tape, a marker, and what appeared to be a set of callipers. Mary laughed, her body vibrating against his.
> 
> "I don’t mind, John. Let him have his fun. We’re all in this together."
> 
> Gleefully, Sherlock dropped to his knees in front of her, settling down with a notepad that had every previous week’s measurements and recordings. Slowly, he raised her shirt. She smiled down at him, amused by the hesitance in his face.
> 
> "Well go on then, she’s going to start kicking and flailing and you know how that messes up your measurements."
> 
> As if the baby had been listening, the outline of a foot, or possibly an elbow, distorted the line of Mary’s belly. Impulsively, Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his lips to the protrusion. Mary’s breath caught in her throat, and she reached forward to run her fingers through his curls as John tilted to kiss her cheek.

* * *

 

UrbanHymnal asked for Kiss Along The Hips and Molly/Lestrade

> Greg dipped his fingers under the waistband of Molly’s skirt, grinning as she gasped and arched her body up to meet him. She ran her fingers through his hair, tugging lightly. He loved watching the way her skin flushed under his touch, loved how her mousy, quiet demeanour vanished when they were alone.
> 
> Slowly, slowly, he pulled the skirt down, exposing the delicate curve of her hipbones, the soft dip under her navel, the very tops of her knickers. He dragged his lips across the band of skin he’d bared, stopping when he got to the tiny birthmark inside her left hip. Maybe it was just Greg being flighty, but the first time he’d seen it, he couldn’t help but think it looked like a tiny heart.

* * *

 

Kiwitage asked for Collarbone Kiss and did not specify pairing, so I chose John/Sherlock

> John stared over his shoulder at his reflection in the mirror and sighed. It was silly to hope that after all this time the scar on his scapula would be any less visible, any less marring than it used to be, and yet the impulse to check never faded.
> 
> He was about to step out of the bathroom when his path was blocked by six feet of looming consulting detective.
> 
> "You were fretting about it again, weren’t you?"
> 
> "Yeah, go on, don’t tell me you deduced that. The door is glass, you tit."
> 
> Sherlock frowned, cupping John’s cheek with one hand.
> 
> "You know you’re being ridiculous." He rubbed the side of his face against John’s, a strange little gesture that set John’s heart fluttering. As he pulled away, he dragged his lips along the side of John’s throat, down to the smaller, puckered circle of the entry wound, just above his collarbone. Pointedly, Sherlock pressed his lips right to the scar.
> 
> "Please stop worrying about it. I love you, and I love everything about you."
> 
> Much as he tried, John couldn’t put up a valid argument, and he let himself be led out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom.

* * *

 

Sherlockedgal asked for Goofy Kiss (with those two drunk idiots!) and John/Sherlock

> "You’re drunk," Sherlock mumbled, the words slurring pleasantly around in inside his mouth. John giggled, and Sherlock made a note to slur his words again later, because John giggling was always something to strive for.
> 
> "Mmm," John nuzzled his cheek against Sherlock’s. He was warm and pliant and heavy, and the two of them tumbled into Sherlock’s chair. "M’not drunk, you’re drunk."
> 
> Sherlock shook his head emphatically. “Am not. Had leth than you did.”
> 
> "Yeah, but…" John trailed off, running his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. "You’re a lightweight."
> 
> Sherlock moaned quietly as John tugged on his curls. “Only one way to tetht thith…” John giggled again, and for once Sherlock stopped fighting his lisp. He gripped John’s face in his hands, angling his head so their lips met. He darted his tongue out, feeling John’s curling against his own. For a moment, nothing mattered but the kiss.
> 
> Panting, John pulled back slightly, eyes wide. “What was that supposed to prove?”
> 
> "I’m…" Sherlock shook his head. "I forget. Shut up. Kith me again."

* * *

 

Makanivalur asked for Forceful Kiss and John/Sherlock

> John grabbed Sherlock by the lapels, twisting them around and pinning him against the door. Sherlock groaned, and the noise went straight to John’s groin. He crowded Sherlock, gripping his chin and tilting his head downwards just enough so that their lips met easily. John gave no quarter, thrusting his tongue hungrily into Sherlock’s mouth, swallowing Sherlock’s breaths as he panted and gasped.
> 
> He could feel Sherlock’s fingers digging into his hips, hard enough that there would be bruises later, but the only thing that mattered right now was the kiss. It was hot, bruising, all-consuming. John felt himself growing hard, felt Sherlock’s erection heavy against his hip bone, and manhandled Sherlock into the hallway, never once breaking the contact of their lips.
> 
> They tumbled into the bedroom, a sprawling tangle of limbs as they fell onto the bed. John tasted the sharp tang of blood in his mouth, but try as he might, he couldn’t figure out whose it was. He could not longer tell where he ended and Sherlock began.

* * *

 

InWonderUnderground asked for Nose Kiss and John/Sherlock

> The sun was glinting off the waves, the air was warm and smelled faintly of salt and iodine. Sherlock supposed that to some people the sight would be beautiful, idyllic, picturesque, and a bunch of other ridiculous adjectives.
> 
> People were playing on the beach, frolicking and supposedly enjoying the weather. John had waded out for a swim. Sherlock, however, was most pointedly  _ **not**  _sulking under a large umbrella with sand in places sand should never be. He was thinking. Yes, that sounded plausible. Much easier to think in the shade.
> 
> His mood lifted slightly as John made his way across the beach. His hair looked golden in the light, his shoulders gently bronzed by the sun. He put his book aside and looked up as John stepped into the shade of the umbrella.
> 
> He grinned as he squatted down, bringing his face level with Sherlock’s.
> 
> "Forgot to put sun cream on again, did you?" John chided playfully. He bent down and grazed his lips across the itching bridge of Sherlock’s nose. The contact was, despite all logic, cooling and comforting.

* * *

 

my-citrus-pocket asked for Kiss In The Rain and Mycroft/Lestrade

> Greg grumbled, flicking his lighter despondently. His cigarette was completely soaked through, but he was determined. Or desperate. Or possibly both.
> 
> He shoved the lighter into his pocket and turned his coat collar up to try and shield himself from the damp when the rain overhead stopped abruptly. A cool, smooth voice came up from somewhere behind him.
> 
> "You are aware those things are injurious to your health, Detective Inspector?"
> 
> Grinning, Greg turned around just in time to see Mycroft’s face lit up by his own lighter - Dunhill, monogrammed, because of course it was - as the small, enclosed dome of the umbrella filled with the crackling paper and comforting smell of tobacco.
> 
> "Yeah, so I keep hearing," He grinned as Mycroft inhaled deeply before holding the cigarette out to him. Instead of taking it, he pressed his lips tightly against his lover’s, inhaling as Mycroft gasped out sharply. The kiss was heightened by the sound of the rain, the rush of the nicotine.  He pulled back, grinning at the mock-scandalised look on Mycroft’s sharp features.
> 
> "I think sometimes it’s worth the risk, though."

* * *

Beesjohn gave me free choice and I chose Eyelid Kiss, and asked for John/Sherlock

> Sherlock’s lips were almost painfully gentle. Warm and dry, they explored the planes of John’s face. First the outer corners of his mouth, then each cheekbone. The bridge of his nose, his philtrum, the stubble of his chin. There was something both touching and erotic about Sherlock cataloguing him this way; he was no doubt taking notes on the minute shifts in John’s pulse, breathing rate, and capillary expansion as he went.
> 
> Eventually, his exploration ended with one delicate kiss to each eyelid. John sighed. That had no right to feel as lovely as it did. He sank deeper into the chair, utterly relaxed, as Sherlock’s lips began their slow journey down his throat.

* * *

 

Tempestwakener asked for Forceful Kiss and Sherlock/Lestrade

> Three days. Three days he’s been clean. Surely that’s got to count for something.
> 
> He stalks down the alley, pointedly ignoring the yellow tape and the irritated commentary from the officers surrounding the scene, and marches right up to the Detective Sergeant.
> 
> "Sherlock," his voice is tired and rough. Clean air, clean blood, pheromones snap through Sherlock’s body, firing off synapses and making everything sparkle.
> 
> He pulls back into the shadows, knowing full well he’ll be followed. The man with the greying hair proves true to form, ducking after him. Impulsively, he wraps his hands around the officer’s face, pulling their lips together demandingly. Sherlock swallows down their moans.
> 
> Lestrade pulls back, sighing and adjusting his coat. ”Now’s really not a good time, Sherlock,” he mumbles, looking over his shoulder at the body.
> 
> "Oh, but I think it is. I know who did it."

* * *

 

 


	36. Kiss & Tell part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More prompted kiss ficlets!

MadameGoethe asked for Goofy Kiss (preferably their first one), and John/Sherlock:

> John’s not, by nature, a particularly clumsy person. So when his foot gets caught up in the rug in the lounge, it catches him by surprise. What startles him even more is Sherlock jumping up and trying to stop him falling.
> 
> Unfortunately, John’s momentum has already got the better of him and the two of them crash down into Sherlock’s chair in an ungainly pile. Sherlock’s hand is around his waist, his hand is on Sherlock’s thigh, but most alarmingly, their lips have met with near-mathematical precision.
> 
> And oh.  _ **Oh**_. Doesn’t this just feel like the most perfect, natural thing in the world. Sherlock seems to agree, because he parts his lips, and John can feel his breath, warm and moist, against his own mouth. Unconsciously, he mimics Sherlock, gasping softly as he feels Sherlock’s tongue exploring his mouth, fragile and tentative and  _perfect_.

* * *

 

GuixonLove asked for The Most Intimate Kiss (oral sex), and Janine/Irene - this one's NSFW:

> Janine writhes against the sheets, her hands gripping the headboard. Irene hadn’t tied her up, joking about not wanting to bring work home, but she may as well have. She’s been driving Janine mad for over an hour now, covering her limbs and torso with a dazzling array of gentle kisses, sharp bites, and scratches. She’s pointedly avoided Janine’s breasts, neck, and anywhere between her navel and thighs, and yet Janine’s still been on the edge of coming for what feels like years now.
> 
> "Irene, please…" She’s got no shame, she’s way beyond begging at this point, and Irene, damn her, just chuckles quietly.
> 
> "Trust me, love. It’ll be worth it." With a smirk, she grips Janine around the hips, tipping her up, exposing her sopping, swollen cunt to the cool air of the room, and Janine gasps sharply. Her clit is so swollen every shift of her body pinches it between her lips. She rolls her hips, desperately seeking some sort of friction, some sort of contact to soothe the burning ache, but Irene slaps her thigh gently.
> 
> "I was going to be generous, but I’m not entirely sure you deserve it," she says, her voice impassive and nearly professionally detached, but Janine recognises the playful glimmer in her lovely eyes. And then, before Janine has time to process things, Irene’s lips are pressed against her, parting her own intimate lips with that sharp, clever tongue, and Janine is crying out, whimpering, biting down on her lip and bucking against Janine’s face.

* * *

 

hmg621 asked for Underwater Kiss, and Mycroft/Lestrade:

> Greg saunters down the floating dock, staring at the the  ** _Holmes & Away_** as she bobs gently in the water in front of them.
> 
> "You own a ship." He splutters, trying to contain his amusement. "Of course you do."
> 
> "It’s a  _yacht_ , Gregory, not a ship.” Mycroft sounds disdainful, but he smiles slightly. “But she is irrelevant this morning, I thought we were going for a swim.”
> 
> Without a second word, Greg launches himself off the dock and into the clear water.
> 
> Mycroft slowly descends the ladder at the end of the dock, wading in until his knees are submerged, but makes no further move.
> 
> "Come on then, you may as well have kept your suit on and dangled your toes in the water. Come over here, the water’s great."
> 
> Mycroft sighs and takes a few steps forwards before pausing again, but that’s not good enough for Greg. He darts over, under the water, and grips Mycroft by the legs, causing him to tumble inelegantly into the water. He comes up for air, sputtering and scowling, but before he has the chance to complain, Greg’s lips are on his, warm and unyielding. The water around them is cool and refreshing, a biting contrast to the growing heat of the kiss.

* * *

 

Anonymous asked for Forehead Kiss - Platonic, and Molly/Sherlock:

> Molly sighed again, for what felt like the sixth time today. She bent to pick up the shards of broken glass where she’d dropped a flask. Before that, she’d spilled tea all over her notes, and accidentally run into the gents’ instead of the ladies’ at lunch.
> 
> She checked her email for the seventeenth time, still no response from her online dating profile.
> 
> Today just wasn’t shaping up to be a very good day.
> 
> Things only got more tense when Sherlock marched through the door of the lab, clapping his hands excitedly. He was much better lately, and so was she, now that she wasn’t feeling so mousy around him, but this was still an added stressor she just didn’t have the energy for right now.
> 
> She stood up, brushing herself off, and dumped the glass in the bin as Sherlock barged into the room. She didn’t mean to shrink away from him, but something must have caught his eye.
> 
> Instead of cheerfully barking orders at her, Sherlock stood and cocked his head. Ever so gently, he took her face in his hands - leaving her feeling more than a little dwarfed - and kissed her forehead.
> 
> "Forgive me, Molly. I can see that you have a lot on your plate right now. I will come back later."
> 
> She blinked, staring at his retreating form, and sat down with an exhausted groan.

 


	37. Fluff prompt #1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> belovedmuerto requested "epic snuggles"

Sherlock storms through the flat without so much as a hello and barges directly into their bedroom, still wearing his coat. John hears the familiar thud and whine of the mattress as Sherlock throws himself onto the bed, but it’s not nearly as exciting a sound as usual.

With a sigh, he folds up the newspaper and pulls himself out of the armchair, rolling his neck to loosen it up. Sherlock’s clearly in a volatile mood, and John won’t be able to tell what he needs without what might amount to an epic blowup.

He raps on the door gently with his knuckles, but doesn’t bother waiting for Sherlock to answer. It was more of a warning than a request. The sight in the bedroom doesn’t really surprise John. Makes him sad, certainly, but doesn’t surprise him.

Sherlock’s curled in on himself, cocooned inside the bulk of his coat. At least he’s had the decency to take his shoes off. John smiles ruefully before biting the inside of his cheek. He shouldn’t find his lover’s sulk so amusing, but he makes such a spectacle of it.

"Shove over a bit, would you?" He settles down on the mattress, facing Sherlock’s back, and prods him gently. He receives nothing more than an irritated grumble in return. He’s not snapping or shouting, so John figures he can wheedle a bit more.

"Get something wrong, did you?" His voice is playful and teasing, and it hits just the right tone. Sherlock grumbles again and rolls over, getting tangled up in the Belstaff.

"A pet puma, John! Honestly! Who in their right minds would have a pet puma in London? How was I supposed to deduce something ridiculous like that!"

He looks so irate, so indignant, that John can’t help but laugh. For a moment Sherlock looks affronted, but John opens his arms, inviting Sherlock to burrow in, and he does so eagerly.

Sherlock buries his face into John’s throat, and John’s arms find their way around his ribs, under the coat, pulling them together from shoulder to knee. Sherlock wriggles, nuzzling in deeper and throwing one leg over John’s hips, effectively caging him in. John smiles, resting his cheek against the top of Sherlock’s hair.

"Of course you couldn’t have known, not your fault, I bet you were brilliant anyway…" John murmurs soothingly. He knows Sherlock’s not really listening, but the words comfort them both. He feels Sherlock’s hands, broad and warm, splaying across his shoulder blades.

When they’d first confessed their love to each other, they’d spent days learning each others bodies, learning how to fit together perfectly. There’d been an urgency to their physical interactions, as if they’d been making up for lost time. Now though, John is incredibly content to just entangle himself with Sherlock like this, fully clothed, finding comfort in the sleepy innocence of it all.

He can feel Sherlock relaxing against him, all that hard muscle and tendon going pliant and soft. John presses a kiss to the top of Sherlock’s head, nosing his curls out of the way.

"Next time you’re upset and want a cuddle, just let me know, yeah?"

Sherlock nods, face still buried in John’s throat. “Thank you.”


	38. Fluff prompt #2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thehappyfangirl requested "john/sherlock and a rain-bedraggled kitten"

The sound is so weak, Sherlock nearly misses it. It’s a pathetic attempt at a mew, all squeaky and faint, and he nearly ignores it. It’s raining heavily, water sluicing down the back of his neck and into his coat. But the kitten mewls again, and against his better judgement, Sherlock squats down and rummages through the trash until he finds the sodden thing.

It’s tiny, smaller than his hand, and entirely black with large yellow eyes. It’s soaking and bedraggled, but looks healthy otherwise. Sherlock looks over his shoulder, as if to ensure nobody is around to witness his moment of weakness, and he unfurls his scarf, wrapping the shivering mess of fur into its warm folds before tucking it into his pocket.

He runs the last few blocks back to the flat and bounds up the stairs before removing the bundle and placing the kitten on the coffee table, using the ends of the scarf to dry it off properly. He shrugs out of his wet coat, letting it fall to the floor, and looks over at the kitten. It stares at him, wide-eyed and inquisitive, and he stares back.

John steps up behind Sherlock, resting one hand on the small of Sherlock’s back.

"Sherlock." John’s voice is careful and neutral. "That’s a kitten."

"Astute observation, John." Sherlock glances over his shoulder and grins.

"Why is it on the coffee table? Is it evidence?" There’s a gentle undercurrent of laughter in John’s voice, and Sherlock relaxes slightly.

"Of course not. It…" he pauses, cocks his head at the kitten, who mimics the gesture. "It was wet."

John glances out the window and chuckles. “It, and the rest of London.”

With a sigh, as if it’s all terribly troublesome to him, John drops to his knees and holds one finger out towards the kitten. It stands up on gangly legs and ambles over to John, butting the finger and letting out an alarmingly loud purr.

"I think it likes you, John."

"At least there’ll be one thing in the flat that does," John says, deadpan. Sherlock opens his mouth to argue but catches the glint of humour in John’s eyes and smiles.

"So, can it stay?"

Absently, John scratches the kitten under the chin.

"On two conditions. One; you take care of it, take it to a veterinary clinic to make sure it’s healthy and make sure it has a clean litter pan and food."

Sherlock nods. “That is reasonable.” They both know John will end up taking care of the kitten, but go through the motions anyway. “Second condition?”

John holds up his phone and snaps a photo. “I get to tell everyone at the Met that Sherlock Holmes is an enormous softie who rescues stray kittens.”


	39. Fluff prompt #3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> midcenturymorbid requested "john & Sherlock with bees and a garden giving Sherlock ideas for the future"

"The hive… Lestrade? What will happen to it?" Sherlock asks, his eyes fixed on the tidy row of white boxes, the cloud of industrious bees hovering around it.

Lestrade glances over his shoulder and shrugs. “They’re not evidence anymore, and they were just following their queen. It’s not as though it was premeditated on their part.”

John saunters over and follows Sherlock’s eye-line, glancing over at the bees.

"Sherlock, no."

"But-"

"We are not keeping bees in the centre of London."

"But the keeper is dead, John. Their entire society could crumble if they’re separated!" Sherlock runs his hands through his hair, clearly agitated. John reaches out, placing his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder and stroking soothingly.

"I know. We’ll find someone to take care of them. But we’re not keeping bees yet."

Sherlock cocks his head. “Yet?”

"Well…" John looks around, taking in the solid little stone house, the rolling grass hills behind the hives. "We’re not getting any younger, Sherlock. This is, well, it’s actually pretty lovely."

"I’d get bored. You’d get bored." Sherlock mumbles, but the words sound half-formed, like he doesn’t quite believe them. He keeps glancing over towards the hives. John smiles fondly, squeezing Sherlock’s shoulder.

"You’d have bees to keep you occupied. I’d have you. You, and bee stings."


	40. Tipsy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For a prompt on Tumblr, "things said when you were drunk"  
> Mycroft/Anthea

She’s not drunk, exactly. A little wobbly, certainly, but in these shoes who wouldn’t be? She totters along next to her boss, frowning at her uncooperative thumbs as they stumble across the keypad of her Blackberry.

She glances sidelong at Mycroft. She’s never seen him over-indulge, but after one too many rounds of a ridiculous drinking game with the Polish ambassador, there’s a blotchy flush across his cheeks tonight that makes him look more human than he’s ever been. It’s completely endearing. He reaches up and loosens his tie before he realises she’s still watching.

“It’s fine, sir. I won’t tell anyone,” she teases. Without thinking, she reaches out to loosen it further. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t stop her.

“S’nice,” she says, staring up at him. “Seeing you like this.”

For a moment, it looks as if he’s going to say something, but he bites it back. He runs a hand through her hair and then pulls away as if he’s burnt, as if he hadn’t quite realised what he was doing.

“I apologise, Anthea.” Mycroft’s voice is clipped as he steps away, cool air rushing between them.

With a resigned sigh, she nods and straightens herself out. “Sometimes I wish you… we…” She bites her lip before she can finish her sentence. He smiles down at her one last time.

“Sometimes, I wish the same.”


End file.
